Sara Strong

Chapter 11

Max lay on the medical bed. It had been days since he had last heard Ingrid. Since he had ignored her desperate pleas.

He had no more visits at that time. From Ingrid or Sebastion or anyone else. Three times a day someone dressed in a full hazmat suit would come and drop off a sandwich and water for him to drink and then leave without a word.

Max knew they were watching him. He had managed to locate three hidden cameras in the rather sparse room. And he was sure they were monitoring him in other ways too.

Something was happening to him. He couldn't deny it any longer.

The pain in his head had spread to every part of his body until it became all-encompassing.

He had turned to the closest camera, located in the light fixture next to the bed and begged for help. That he would do anything, if only they would make the pain stop.

But it seemed that they were no longer interested in his cooperation. And for the whole day no one came to drop off any food, Max laid, unable to move, silently screaming.

Until suddenly it stopped.

Max just breathed deeply for a moment.

Finally, he sat up. He patted around himself, trying to find anything different, any change. Nothing.

He lifted his arms to study his hands. They were still a deep brown, large, but normal for him.

There didn't appear to be an obvious physical change. But that searing pain, it had to be some sort of reaction.

Was this the catastrophic failure, Ingrid was talking about? Was the relief in pain simply the calm before his organs started to fail and his brain bleeds through his nose?

They said the process was unpredictable. There was no telling what might have been done to him.

If there were no physical changes maybe there was something else.

Max was a psychically imposing guy. Maybe the virus enhanced that.
Max casually strode the door. And once again tried the doorknob. Still locked. He tried to force it. And then he started to bang on the door. Trying to break through with all his strength, once. He backed up a few paces and took several running starts.

He had the exact same results as the first. The door remainder stubbornly closed.

He only managed to bruise the side of his arm again.

Changing gears he started at the bed. The only thing in the room that wasn't locked down into place, willing it to move.

He held out his arm willing something, anything to happen. Some spark of electricity, or flame. Or maybe he'd turn invisible and the next time someone came to drop off the food he could just slip out the door.

Nothing happened. Max felt a sliver of disappointment. He had to go through all that and there was nothing. Not even something that could help him out the shitty situation he found himself in.

Oh well, at least those bastards didn't get what they wanted either.

Max flood back unto the bed. Being careful not to jostle his sore arm. Except he didn't feel any sort of soreness.

Max took off his lab coat and lifted his shirt to take a better look at his arm. Where he had expected a mismatch of yellow and purpling bruises. There was nothing.

Max's breath started to pick up. Faster and faster. He desperately tried to stave off a panic attack.

He sat upon the far side of the bed and lowered his arm, out of sight of the cameras.

There was a metal bar at the bottom of the bed near where the headboard met the base that had a slight edge that was twisting upwards.

He scraped his shaking hand across it. Wincing at the long cut across his hand.

He raised his hand to his chest, using his body to block the camera's view.

A speckle of blood spilt from the wound and ran down his hand. But Max wasn't watching the blood. Instead, his gaze was firmly attached to the split skin that was already inching back together at the edges.